Chapter 2: The ID That Opened Everything

Saturday morning arrived the way every Saturday had for three months: with the smell of pancakes and bacon drifting up the staircase, pulling Lilly from a thin, restless sleep.

Her clock read 9:17 AM.

She rolled onto her side and stared at her bedroom window. The blinds split the sunlight into neat orange lines across her comforter. Somewhere downstairs, her mother hummed a pop song from before the lockdowns. Something about dancing in the dark.

Lilly swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her joints felt rusted, her eyes gritty. She’d heard the headboard stop around midnight but hadn’t fallen asleep until sometime after two. Every time she closed her eyes, that red plastic sign burned behind her lids.

Carl’s Adult Bookstore.

She pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants, dragged a brush through her tangled ponytail, and padded downstairs.

The kitchen was a postcard. Her father sat at the breakfast nook with a newspaper, an actual physical newspaper, the kind he’d started buying again when the lockdowns lifted, like he was reclaiming some lost ritual. Her mother stood at the stove in a yellow sundress, spatula in hand, barefoot on the tile.

“There she is,” her father said. His voice had an ease to it, a looseness Lilly hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe she just hadn’t been paying attention. “Pancakes are still warm.”

Lilly forced a smile. “Smells good.”

Her mother turned, face flushed from the griddle, and the radiance coming off her was almost obscene. Smile lines deepened. Eyes bright. That post-sex Saturday glow Lilly had dismissed for twelve weeks as “good sleep” or “finally getting out of the house more.”

The pancakes tasted like cardboard. Lilly drowned them in syrup and chewed mechanically while her parents made small talk about grocery lists and whether the lawn needed mowing.

“Did you sleep okay, sweetie?” Her mother’s question landed too casually. “You look a little tired.”

“Fine.” Lilly stabbed another bite. “Just stayed up late reading.”

Her father grunted approval behind the sports section.

Help with cleanup was automatic. Lilly gathered plates, loaded the dishwasher, wiped down the counters while her mother packed reusable shopping bags into the fender of her purse. Routine. Muscle memory. It let her keep her face neutral while the questions piling up behind her teeth screamed to be asked.

Where did you really go last night? What do you do there? Who are you when I’m not looking?

“Back by noon,” her mother called. The garage door swallowed them both.

The Honda reversed out of the driveway. The engine noise faded. The house went quiet.

Lilly stood at the kitchen sink, gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles blanched. Then she bolted upstairs.

Her laptop woke with a tap. The browser opened to incognito mode, a habit from the pandemic years, when privacy meant closing tabs before her mother brought laundry through. She’d never had anything truly worth hiding before.